Time seems to slip away faster now.
I blink and it's evening soon after I've sat down with my morning coffee, a fresh Scrivener page, and my planner.
I blink and those long gray sprouts from my scalp have chunked together. What used to look like shimmering highlights now bare the mark of age or distress. Which one? I'm not sure yet.
The Xanax in my purse says it's the latter, but I don't really need them, I don't think.
I'm only supposed to take them.
The artwork that hangs in my home that draws oohs and awes from visitors was all done as a teenager.
I blinked and I was thirty. I blinked and I had pets and three kids and a house and cars and a husband.
Who's that? How did I meet him in between blinks?
Where did I find the time to have all these things? To get all these thing?
I'm not sure how any of this happened. It's all happening too fast. But I don't know how to slow down. No one told me.
Have I been stinted? Robbed of time? Held at gunpoint, I make decisions like they're the last ones I'll ever make. I took the advice of someone once, he told me to "live in the moment". I took him too literally, I suppose. Living in the moment makes time hasten.
I wished for Friday and Friday came and the weekend ended and then it's Wednesday and Friday rolled around again…
I'm going to blink and I'll be dead. If only I could keep my eyes open, always.
It only hurts sometimes. Not nearly as much as missing all this stuff.
If only the Time Keeper knew how much I tried to do, how much I tried to be a better person.
A better companion.
A better mother, wife, sister, daughter.
But then I blinked...
What do I want to do with this?
Hmm… Good question.
It had just started to rain and the dog was whining at the back sliding glass door.
I don't want to get my hopes too high, but it's something to look forward to.
"What do you want it to be?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you act like I haven't done anything over the last three years. Three years..."
So much stuff. What's the goddamned point?
Time seems to slip away faster now.
If only I could take them with me.
'How's your business going?'
'Fine.' I hate it.
If only he knew her, then he'd understand.
'I wouldn't do it again, if that's what you mean,' I said, pulling my MacBook Pro closer to me atop the long work table in the mall.
What was she thinking?
My fingers are crossed, but I'm not sure if that's enough anymore.
They always end up letting you down.
It always happens in droves.
She caught me with the knife when I was sixteen, maybe seventeen.
I like being flawed. It gives me something to write about.
I let my kids examine my naked body yesterday.
There's no winning with blame.
Every time I think I'm getting better at this whole life thing, I do something wrong and set it back.
It was cold that day. Odd for Florida.
I gave twenty dollars to a woman on the side of the road today.
I like getting older.
There's something about with age and experience comes wisdom that's exhilarating.
The bad thing about family is you can never escape the past.
They remember everything.
I'll see this one through, I tell myself. I'll finish it.
After this, I'll put it to bed. After this, I'll move forward.
I'm the one who makes the show happen.
I was supposed to be an artist.
She asked me.
On her deathbed, she told me.
Something I learned as a visual artist and writer is that some of the best healing comes from expression.
There's something surreal about standing in front of a crowd of strangers—writers who all want the same thing.
At the end of the Writers In Paradise sessions, everyone got a chance to present a refined version of their submitted work, or a new story they were working on.
I was the only teenager at Writers in Paradise with Dennis Lehane, Sterling Watson and other well-known authors back in 2006.